Drowning in Amber Light

The city outside is a smear of neon indigo and weeping asphalt, but here, the water holds me in a heavy, velvet grip. The humidity clings to my skin like a second, more intimate layer of lace. I can still taste the salt of the rain on my lips and the lingering scent of your cologne—sandalwood and something dark, like burnt sugar left in an alleyway.
I remember how you looked through the steam of that underground bar, eyes tracing the silhouette of my shoulders before even touching my hand. There was no need for words; the air between us was already thick with a silent, pulsing heat. Now, submerged in this quiet pool, I feel your presence like a phantom limb. Every ripple against my chest feels like the ghost of your fingertips.
I am waiting for the moment you break the surface of this solitude. Not to pull me out, but to sink into this beautiful, drowning weight with me. Let the world blur until there is nothing left but the rhythm of our breathing and the warmth of a connection that defies the cold, urban ache.

Editor: Midnight Neon